How that infuriating man would chortle with glee if he could see Miss Victoria Quinton now—sitting politely at table, her elbows pressed primly at her sides, quietly partaking of her breakfast while her wayward uncle and optimistic housekeeper planned the social coup of the Season—Victoria thought helplessly, unable any longer to fight the urge to allow her shoulders to droop.
“Sit up straight!” Wilhelmina barked, sergeantlike, picking up immediately on Victoria’s lapse. “Being tall is nothin’ to be ashamed of, you know.”
“Don’t you know that even you can’t fashion a silk purse out of a sow’s ear?” Victoria responded somewhat lamely, pushing her shoulders back against the hard chair, for she had just graduated from the uncomfortable backboard the day before and could only hope the housekeeper wouldn’t see fit to strap it back on her for her sins. “Besides, Willie, everyone knows Incomparables are always small, blonde, and dainty.” And pretty, she added to herself.
“That, Puddin’, was last year,” Quentin told her bracingly. “This year there’s to be something new for the gentlemen to wax poetic over, a tall, dark-haired beauty who’s going to set this town on its ear!”
Victoria looked across the breakfast table at her uncle—sitting back in his chair, his thumbs hooked on the pockets of his pink satin waistcoat—sighed, and slowly shook her head. “I appreciate all that you’re attempting to accomplish, Uncle Quentin, truly I do, and I’m overcome by your condescension. But it’s plain as a pikestaff that I am not cut out for the social whirl. Why, I don’t even have a female chaperone! Why don’t we just stop now, before you waste any more money on such a wild scheme.”
Quentin Quinton had the sort of round, cherubic face that could, when he applied himself, assume a sorrowful expression capable of wresting tears from a stone. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he conjured up just such an expression now, seemingly suppressing a sob as he lamented, “That’s it, then? You’d give up the quest just like that, at the first piddling roadblock? I had thought you had more of your mother in you, Puddin’, really I did.”
Victoria felt as if she had just kicked a kitten. Looking from her crestfallen uncle to the long-suffering expression now evident on Wilhelmina’s face, she knew she was defeated. She had spent the past two weeks fighting every change, balking at every new gown or dancing lesson, but the time had passed for turning craven. She was committed to carrying out what had been—before Quentin arrived on the scene—only a wild, improbable flight of fancy. “Oh, all right!” she conceded grimly. “You may both take those tragedy queen looks off your faces. I have uttered my last objection.”
“Then we may feel free to get on with it?” Quentin murmured artfully, not about to relinquish his woeful expression until he was sure he had gained a total victory.
“You are free to indulge yourselves to the top of your bents, both of you,” Victoria declared fatalistically. “But I warn you—I am not so blind that I don’t know that you have more than one reason for launching me into Society. Just don’t go reserving St. Paul’s for the wedding, if you please. Remember, it’s a murderer we’re after, and not a husband.”
“A husband?” Wilhelmina repeated blankly, her eyes opened wide in innocence. “Quentin, did you hear that? Wherever did the girl get that silly idea? As if we’d ever let such a wild thought enter our heads.”
“Not us, dearest, eh?” Quentin concurred, placidly reaching for a piece of bacon. “We know Puddin’ would give us short shrift if ever we tried to play Cupid or some such thing. Besides, I thought we agreed; it’s m’poor brother’s death we’re out to avenge, heaven rest his soul.” Raising his eyes to heaven, he then moved his lips as if in silent prayer.
Unable to watch this farce with a straight face any longer, Victoria picked up a muffin and lightly tossed it in her uncle’s direction. Laughing, she scolded, “You two really bear off the palm, do you know that?”
Deftly catching the muffin, Quentin nodded to acknowledge this faint praise. “Pass the honey pot, Puddin’, since it looks like you’ve taken over the serving this morning. Willie, my love, why don’t you sit down and rest yourself a bit after fixing us this fine repast? There’s enough here to feed a regiment. Repast,” he repeated then, holding his knife up in front of him to admire its carved hilt. “I learned that word from a gentleman I met in Bombay. Secretary to a duke, he was, until he ran off with the Duke’s money box. Lovely man. I learned a lot from him.”
Wilhelmina looked nervously around the room, as if she expected the Professor to burst in at any moment to order her back to the kitchens before throwing Quentin out on his ear. “I really shouldn’t—”
“Oh, don’t talk fustian, Willie,” Victoria pleaded, hopping up to pull out a chair for the housekeeper. “You’re family.”
Raising a hand to pat at the large knot of hair that lay at the base of her neck, Wilhelmina colored prettily, then sat down, a coquettish smile lighting her features. “Oh, isn’t this grand!” she said, then giggled.
“Uncle,” Victoria said, suddenly feeling inspired, “couldn’t we get Willie a new wardrobe, and some lessons too? Then she could be my chaperone. I’d certainly feel less alone if I had Willie by my side when I went about town.”
Quentin looked over at Wilhelmina, who had jumped to her feet the moment she had heard Victoria’s suggestion, her usually pink complexion now suddenly chalk-white, and could not suppress a shout of laughter. “My Willie out in Society? Lord, Puddin’, why do you think she wouldn’t leave with me all those years ago?”
“But—” Victoria protested, worrying that Wilhelmina might be insulted by his words.
“No,” he pushed on, unheeding, “my Willie has no love of adventure in her heart, and the thought of sitting in some titled lady’s parlor with a turban stuck on her head would be enough to send her scurrying right back to the country to hide her head in a haystack.”
“He’s right, Missy,” the housekeeper agreed, hanging her head. “I never was the one for gaddin’ about.”
“Besides, I’ve already found a chaperone for you, and a right proper young woman at that,” Quinton announced, gaining Victoria’s undivided attention. “She’ll be here within the week, if I read her letter right. She answered my advertisement in the newspapers, you know. Pretty handwriting. Puddin’, do you really spell Saturday with two T’s?”
“Only one T, Uncle,” Victoria informed him straight-faced. “But it’s a common mistake.”
“I thought so,” Quentin said, looking a bit relieved. “She forgot the E too.”
Victoria opened her mouth, thought better of what she was about to say, and asked for another piece of bacon.
Wilhelmina, still unsure whether to be relieved by Quentin’s attempt at rescue or indignant over his low opinion of her courage, mustered enough spirit to sniff disparagingly at his description of the woman he had hired. “Chaperone, you say. That girl didn’t sound to be more than eight and twenty herself, even if she is a widow. More like a companion, I’d say, and even then the tongues are sure to wag when the two of them go about together of an evening.”
A young woman? More of a companion than a chaperone? Victoria felt her heart skip a beat as she thought of how lovely it would be to be able to converse with someone nearer her own age. She had never had a real friend—someone who might be able to answer some of the questions that had been plaguing her ever since she first set sight on Patrick Sherbourne and felt some strange stirrings deep inside her that she would rather die than mention to Wilhelmina. “What’s her name, Uncle, this companion you have secured for me?”
“Emma,” Quentin told her, then added almost under his breath, “Emma Hamilton.”
CHAPTER TEN
“I KNOW IT IS a vastly unfortunate name,” the incredibly small, blonde-haired beauty apologized in her soft voice a week later as she sat in the Quinton drawing room, “but as I loved Harry dearly, it couldn’t be helped. I do hope it won’t cause you any undue embarrassment.”
Victoria, who h
ad been sitting across from her newly arrived companion—feeling taller and darker and homelier by the minute—could only shake her head and continue to stare at the fragile doll who was looking at her out of the widest, clearest blue eyes she had ever seen.
“Mama, bless her soul, for she has been gone these past seven years, used to say that I should have called myself Emma Connington-Hamilton, just to avoid confusion, you know, but I didn’t think I could possibly do that without insulting Harry most dreadfully, don’t you? I mean, after all, it wasn’t as if I had ever danced on a tabletop for some wicked lords or draped shawls around myself and struck Attitudes for anyone who wished to see, was it?”
At last Victoria found her tongue. “Of course I don’t mind about your name, Mrs. Hamilton. Only a poor-spirited person could be so cruel as to cast aspersions on you, or Lady Hamilton for that matter, as I for one believe we should thank her for making poor, brave Lord Nelson so happy in his last years. If your name offends anyone, it will only be because England should be ashamed to remember how shabbily it has treated Lady Hamilton, especially since Lord Nelson expressly asked the government to take care of her for him.”
Emma smiled sweetly, showing off her perfect white teeth. “Oh, you are just as knowledgeable as Mr. Quinton said you were in his advertisement. Such a dear man, your uncle. How unusual for a female to know so much about matters of state. I must say I am impressed, Miss Quinton.”
Victoria, who secretly wished she knew as much about dancing on tabletops and posing in Attitudes while dressed in draperies as she did about the less romantic features of the lives of Lady Emma Hamilton and Lord Horatio Nelson, could only sigh and say, “Please call me Victoria, Mrs. Hamilton. After all, we are going to be much in company with one another for the next few months, aren’t we?”
“Oh dear, should I? I mean, you are my employer, after all, even if it is that wonderful Mr. Quinton who actually engaged my services as chaperone. Such a dear man, Mr. Quinton. Oh—I said that already, didn’t I? Harry, rest his soul, always told me I should try more diligently to remember what I have said—or was it that I should be more diligent in saying only things worthy of being remembered? Ah, well,” she concluded, folding her tiny hands daintily in her lap, “I don’t believe it matters much now, does it? And please, Victoria, you must call me Emma. Only if you wish to, of course,” she ended in a breathless rush.
“I would like that, um, above all things!” Victoria told the woman, lamely trying to sound more like a debutante. Victoria couldn’t be certain, but she believed she was beginning to feel a headache behind her eyes. Was it possible that all Society females prattled on like Emma Hamilton? And if they did, how could someone like Patrick Sherbourne possibly help but seek his entertainment elsewhere, with women who, because of either their background or their profession, could at least be counted on to know whether or not the sky was blue—and then be able to say so with some measure of conviction!
“When do you plan your first foray into Society, Victoria?” Emma asked then, belatedly remembering that she was in Ablemarle Street as an employee and not an invited guest. “Have you a list of invitations you wish me to go through, to help you decide which entertainments would be best suited to an innocent young lady? That’s what I did for Mrs. Witherspoon last year when I acted as companion for her dear Henrietta’s come-out. Such a sweet girl, Henrietta. If only she could have done something about those dreadful teeth. I wonder who’s chaperoning her this year.”
Wilhelmina came into the drawing room then, intent on ushering the new chaperone upstairs and helping her unpack her belongings (just to see if the beautiful but vacant-faced young woman had any clothing more suitable to her new post than the shabby blue traveling costume that had been inexpertly darned in at least three places), saving Victoria from having to admit that she had not as yet a single card of invitation to her credit, even though Uncle Quentin had sent announcements of her debut to the newspapers over a week earlier.
Once the two women had exited the room, Victoria stood up and reluctantly walked over to the mirror, the same one she had made use of after her first insulting interview with Patrick Sherbourne. Tilting her head to one side, she carefully assessed her new, shorter hairstyle, still trying to decide if she looked like a fashionable ingenue or a slightly long-haired peach.
Thrusting out her bottom lip, she then transferred her scrutiny to the modest strip of naked flesh showing above the scooped neckline of her green-sprigged muslin morning gown, comparing her still somewhat prominent, though straight, collarbones with the cushiony expanse of skin that had peeked out above Emma Hamilton’s neckline.
“I may no longer resemble a plucked chicken—thanks to Willie’s hourly meals—but I still look like I have more bones than any one female should. And entirely too much neck,” she added, running a hand up her throat and over her finely chiseled jaw and then back down to her chest.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but the housemaid who answered the door led me to believe I would find Miss Quinton in this room. Would it be possible for you to— Good God! Miss Quinton, is that really you?”
Victoria’s hand froze where it was, which was why she could feel the unsettling reaction Patrick Sherbourne’s deep voice immediately effected on her heartbeat. Whirling stiffly to face him, she stifled the mad impulse to cross her spread palms over her exposed neckline and forced her hands to fold themselves together lightly at her waist, hoping against hope that she presented a picture of calm assurance.
“It is you,” the Earl said again, as if confirming his own assumption. Holding out his right hand, he advanced toward her, smiling widely. “Miss Quinton, I have to own it. Please perceive me standing before you, openmouthed with astonishment.”
Immediately Victoria’s back was up, for she was certain this smiling man was enjoying himself quite royally, pretending that she had overnight turned from a moulting crow into an exotic, brilliantly plumed bird.
“Oh, do be quiet,” she admonished, furious at feeling herself blushing as he continued to hold his hand out to her. “If I look a complete quiz, it is all your fault—telling Uncle Quentin about my plan to ferret out the Professor’s murderer. Now, if you have done amusing yourself at my expense, I suggest you take yourself off on your usual immoral pursuits, as I have more than enough on my plate without having to stand here listening to your ludicrous outpourings of astonishment.”
Dropping his ignored hand to his side, Patrick merely smiled all the more as he unabashedly quipped, “Oh dear, how distressing. Now you’ve gone and done it, Miss Quinton. Just as I was about to search out your uncle and kiss him on both cheeks for having brought about a near miraculous transformation, you had to go and open your mouth.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “Ruined the whole effect in the twinkling of an eye. Pity, that.”
Victoria, who had not as yet had time to build up any real confidence in her new, showier appearance, perversely took comfort in Patrick’s remarks. Peering across the room at him carefully—and thanking her lucky stars that her spectacles were tucked away safely in her pocket—she asked huskily, “You—you actually like the way I look? You don’t think I look—silly?”
Sherbourne, whose palate had become more than a little jaded—as he had limited his indulgences to only the most sophisticated sort of female for more years than he cared to count—found himself oddly touched by Victoria’s artless questions and decided to put himself out a bit for her.
Sticking his quizzing glass to his eye, he began a leisurely stroll all the way around the young woman, touching her lightly on the shoulder so that she remained facing front as she tried to turn with him (his impersonal touch nearly turning Victoria’s knees to water, had he only known).
What he saw pleased him more than he could have believed possible. He most especially liked the short cap of dark brown curls that seemed somehow to soften, yet highlight her finely boned cheeks and chin. Her curiously amber eyes appeared to have grown in size beneath their straight, dark brows, he rea
lized, and how he had ever missed noticing her wide, perfectly sculpted mouth he could not understand.
His circuit around her completed, he stood back several paces and ran his eyes impersonally along her figure, taking special note of her gracefully elongated throat and extraordinary posture. She was unfashionably thin, although not unhealthily so, and the line of her bosom was far from imposing, but for the most part he believed he could safely say that hers was a figure that would elicit quite a bit of envy among many of the overly cushioned debutantes now in circulation—not that he would ever dare to voice that particular opinion to Victoria. After all, he valued his life!
Finally, just as Victoria thought she would not be able to stand still another moment, the Earl allowed his glass to drop and cleared his throat in order to pronounce his conclusions. “I make you my compliments, Miss Quinton. I would not go so far as to say that you have been transformed into an unbelievably ravishing creature, for you have not, but I do believe you have taken great strides since last I saw you in this room.”
I will not be missish, I will not be missish, Victoria repeated over and over in her head, trying very hard not to cry out her disappointment at this faint praise. Instead, swallowing down hard on her feelings, she forced a laugh, trying to show the Earl that his opinion meant less than nothing to her.
Then, when he seemed about to expand on his conclusions, she broke in crushingly, “Thank you, sir, for that candidly expressed opinion. However, I do believe that you have overstepped the bounds of propriety in speaking so to a young woman not yet out. Therefore, I believe I find it incumbent upon myself to depress your attempts at familiarity and ask you to please leave.”
The questioning Miss Quinton Page 8
